A Thanksgiving Alphabet

Chitwan National Park
Sauraha,, Nepal
November 22, 2012
Altitude: 1,250'

Thanksgiving 2012 


I am grateful for so many people, so many things.  These are some of the things that give me joy, make me grateful, define the person I am.  And for all of them I am very grateful.

I invite all of you write your own Thanksgiving Alphabet.  When I started this, I thought it would be difficult, but the words just flowed and flowed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A -- Aunt Gloria -- Al-Anon -- Acceptance --Adirondacks -- Autumn -- Almond Joys -- Altiplano of South America -- Apple Crisp -- Another Day -- Awe

B -- Bob the Cat -- Bolivia -- Brilliant Blue Days -- Baked Chicken -- Books -- Bounty Bars -- Bicycles 

C -- Christmas -- Christmas Trees -- Children -- Coyoacan -- Cruises -- Candlelight -- Caribbean Beaches -- C. S. Lewis -- Constellations

D -- DQ Buster Bars -- December -- Dreams and Dreams Fulfilled 
-- Diversity -- Daisies in June

E -- Ed and Rita -- Espanol -- Eggnog -- Every Good Thing in God's Good Earth -- Eyesight -- Education

F -- Friends Who Have Stood Presence -- French Fries -- Figure Skating -- Forgiveness -- F. Scott Fitzgerald -- Fresh Tomatoes 
-- Friendship

G -- God as I Understand Him, Beyond All Conceptions, Beyond All That Theologies Attempt to Teach -- Glenda -- Gerardo -- Grace -- Greece -- Greek Islands -- Greek Food -- Green Mountains -- Gentleness

H -- Helen -- Himalayas -- Heaven -- Health and Health Care -- Hearing -- Hues of Every Shade -- Hershey Kisses -- Hiking 

I -- Ice Cream -- Innovative Thinking -- Iceland -- Islands of Lake Titicaca

J -- Jazz -- Joy -- Jesus' Teachings -- Jeans

K -- Kittens and All God's Gentle Creatures -- Kites

L -- Love, Plain and Simple -- Lake Champlain -- Libraries -- Literature -- Latin America -- Lemon Tea

M -- Mary -- Mexico -- Mexico City -- Mariachi Bands --Montreal -- Macaroni and Cheese -- Milk Chocolate -- Mountains -- Moussaka

N -- November -- New Clothes -- Narnia

O -- October's Colors and Cool Nights -- Oceans -- Over the Rainbow

P -- Parents Who Shaped Me -- Playa del Carmen --Passports -- Point au Roche -- Peanut Sauce -- Plans -- People Who Keep Their Word -- Photography -- Physical Therapy

Q -- Questions and Questions -- Quirky Kids

R -- Rice Pudding and Rice Paddies -- Retirement -- Reading -- Redemption -- Reconciliation

S -- Steve, Always and Above All Steve, Who Has Always Allowed Me to Live the Melody That is My Life -- Spirit of God Who Surrounds Me All the Time -- Summer and Sunshine -- Skiing -- Snow Days -- Snow flakes and Snowfalls -- Shoes That Fit -- Sunsets

T -- Tropical Latitudes -- Travel -- Tapioca -- Truman Capote --  Thanksgiving -- Trains -- Time to Do the Things I Want to Do -- Theater -- Tropical Beaches -- Tibetan Plateau

U -- Unconditional Love

V -- Vicki -- Vietnamese Spring Rolls -- Valium -- Vacations -- Vermont -- Vision

W -- Whiteface Mountain -- Wow! -- White Christmases -- Writing -- Wildflowers -- Wonder

X -- X-tra Crunchy Peanut Butter -- Xylophones in Marimba Bands -- Xanax

Y -- YOU, Blessed Friend, Who Reads This

Z -- Zinnias -- Zest for Life -- Z's When It's Time for Bed -- Zillions and Zillions of Things Left to Do

Sunset Over the Annapurnas--Pokhara, Nepal

Sarangat, Nepal
November 19, 2012
Altitude: 3,159

I was a bit frazzled after Kathmandu and it was very nice to leave the city and travel six hours to the lovely lakeside city of Pokhara, Nepal's second largest city.  It's located on a pretty lake but the most dramatic aspect of the city are the Annapurna's that lie a mere six kilometers away.  They rise to 25,000 feet and in November they are spectacular against the deep blue, cloudless skies.

I spent the first few days enjoying easy things to do: hiking to the World Peace Pagoda on a hill 800' above the lake where the views of the mountains were even more expansive.  Another day I spent  biking south along the lake, past the guest houses, past the restaurants, past the screaming paragliders parachuting off a peak a thousand feet higher than the lake.  Beyond that were traditional villages, centuries old traditions.  At one point I parked the bike just to sit by the river, but that became impossible when a large group of boys spotted me.

Bike.  Ride bike? Namaste.  Hello.  What is your name?  Bike?  Ride bike?  Namaste. Where are you from?  Hello.  Namaste.

It was fun for awhile, but I preferred to be alone, enjoy the vistas of the Himalayas and watching locals harvest their wheat.

When I got back to town it would be my last night.  I'd met a more-than-pleasant Australian couple from the hotel and we'd decided to hire a car and drive to Sarangat--a thousand feet above the city, where we would have unimpeded views of the Annapurnas and cold stare into the clear blue distance of ate afternoon as the sun set behind us.

Nettie and Walter had been living in Pokhara for almost two months.  The four of us made our way to the summit with plenty of time to watch light transform the mountains.

Far below us was the Hemja Valley, with the winding Seti River running sinuously through it.  It had been on the banks of that river that I'd met the boys.

As shadows crept up the Annapurna range, contours of the lower mountains became more pronounced and change to a coppery red.

We had a panoramic sweep of three major Nepali mountains, rising to their glacial summits and all part of the Annapurna Range: to the south lay Dhaulaaagir at 26,542'.  In the center was the dramatic pyramidal shaped Machhapuchhare at 22,740'.  (Nepal will not permit anyone to climb it as it's considered a holy mountain.) And directly in front of us was Annapurna III at 25,95.'.

As the sun set behind us the peaks transformed from purple to pink then to gold.  It was a mighty fine sunset.

But it was time to descend.  The day was shedding its warmth and we all needed warmer clothes.

At a stall near the cab, I rummaged through million year old fossils that are harvested from the Kalikandaki River.  Nettie said, OH, I can't.  It's just too cheesy."

"What are you talking about, I asked her.  "Well...you...an old fossil buying an old fossil." 

We laughed.  She wasn't much younger than I.  At least the ammonite I bought was several million years older either of us.

When we got back to town we'd been invited to the hotel owner's home for dinner.  His wife had prepared a typical Neapali meal, including the national dish--dal bhat.  We used silverware, but Cool and his wife ate with their right hand. We were the odd ones out in this culture

The next morning we separated. Nettie and Walter and Cool and his wife headed off into the mountains.  But Nettie had left me a note: "Dearest Dan... May your journey is life be happy and prosperous and God willing our paths will cross again. Love, Nettie (the younger fossil in making!)"  I had to laugh. 
 

This is one of the most wonderful things about travel--the people one meets and connects with on an almost on a daily basis. I still maintain contact with folks I traveled with more than thirty years ago, and I do not doubt Nettie and Walter have heard the end of me.  Perhaps it's time for a revisit to Australia.

I lingered on in Pokhara another day then left for lower climes. Autumn was now crawling toward winter and the nights were getting too cold for me above 3,000 feet.  It was time to move on to the jungle, then into the plains of Nepal and India where, I'm sure, I'll long for cool nights.

Photos of Kathmandu

Rickshaws in Kathmandu

Royal gardene attached to the King's palace

On the streets

Durbar Square

A Hindu temple

Durbar Square

Idols attached to trees

Beautiful stone work in temples

Life on the street

One of the many gods on display

An outdoor  flower market

The Living Museum that is Bhaktapur

Bhaktapur, Nepal
November 14, 2012
Altitude: 4,445'

Mid-morning in mid-November.  I've been scrupulously following the circuitous walking tour my guide books has recommended.  I hadn't actually been wandering around aimlessly, but I was always walking off track.  The  route was difficult to follow as it was.  I was in a warren of narrow cobblestone streets, winding my way between red bricked houses, scuttling through courtyards peppered with temples, statues, cisterns, wells, women winnowing rice or spinning wool.

I was in the living museum of Bhaktapur--a significant medieval Nepali city state, a slow hour of grimy traffic from the center of Kathmandu.  

And I was lost.  There were few markers on my map to tell me where I was.  The guidebook had said it would take two and half hours to complete the circuit, but I knew better.  For me, the journey has always been more important than the final destination.  There was still a lot of daylight left.  I was surrounded by a pulsing Newari vibrancy and it was perfectly OK to be lot.

Six percent of the population of the Kathmandu Valley trace their routes to the Newari people.  The speak a distinctively different language then Nepalis, are excellent crafts people as well as farmers, and the many shops in Bhaktapur sell finely crafted Hindu and Buddhist idols of gold, silver and bronze.

I was sitting at the edge of a large square under a warm autumn sun.  In one corner, women were raking newly harvested rice into large piles.  The rice would dry for more than a week, winnowed then stored for the winter.

In another corner, women were discretely bathing, their water having come from nearby cisterns and wells.  All around me were temples to Shiva, Vishnu and the pantheon of gods and goddesses that make up Hinduism.  There was no difference between temples and daily life.  The two lived harmoniously side by side.

Men clustered together playing chess or cards and everywhere there were children.  And chickens.  

Children and chickens.  As well as an occasional goat.  I wasn't really alone. The longer I sat, the more children assembled.  And their mothers, too.  I was always asked the same questions.

"What is your name?"                                         "Where are you from?"                                       "Photo?  Take photo?"
"Money?"

The children were out of school for the week.  This was the second of day Dewali, the second most important holiday in Nepal.  
Left over mandalas remained in front of homes.  Hopefully, the goddess Laxmi had come and the family would have luck, many and prosperity during the coming year.  There was a festive air all around money.

But I'd sat long enough.  I asked the group if anyone spoke English.  "Yes, Sir, I do, said a young woman.  I showed her the map and where I wanted to go.  "Oh, Sir.  It's not far.  I will take you there."

And so I packed up my notebook and camera, bid goodbye to my little friends, introduced myself and learned her name was Sampada.  "It means heritage in your language, Sir."  What a lovely name.

She led me out of the square.  We ducked into a few more alleyways and a few more courtyards and delivered me to the next temple.  I was back on track!

I was no more than 20 miles from the city, yet in these narrow streets and courtyard of Bhaktapur with their homes of decorative brickwork and ornately carved windows, I could easily have been in a Nepali village in the middle of nowhere. 

This was a typical Newari settlement dating to the 14th and 15th century.  The Newari are excellent farmers and they have carried their traditions from the country to the city.  Sheaves of wheat drying in the sun as well a string of corn drying between windows.  And because this was Dewali, many of the shrines were decorated with garlands of marigolds and flower petals.  The mandalas, still lovely only a day later, were elaborately designed geometric figures of many colors, interspersed with flowers.  Candles, which had been lit the night before, were still in their same location.

I was careful with my guidebook.  Well...maybe not too careful.  It wasn't hard to get diverted.  Another square was chock-a-block with vendors--their produce spread on the ground on large sheets of plastic.  Fruit was piled high: huge pomellos, tiny lady finger bananas, apples and oranges and guavas--all in season.  There were baskets of dried fish and tables full of freshly killed chickens and cuts of beef surrounded by hordes of flies. 

There were also goats and geese and dogs.  And always, in every open area, the piles of rice drying in the sun. These people may live in the city, but they brought their age old traditions with them from the countryside.  I also watched a goat being slaughtered, its skin burn off the men cutting the animal into cuts of meat.  Dinner, perhaps, for the second night of Dewali.

For over four hours I was the only tourist.  I continued detouring through the mazes of interconnecting courtyards.  I'd jog through dark alleys, get lost once again, but find my way out. There were times I felt like Hansel and Gretel.  Perhaps I should have left a trail of crumbs to get me back to where I'd started.  

Well, I got lost time and again.  But someone or somehow I'd find my way to the next temple--some Buddhist, some Hindu.  What was supposed to be a two and half hour walk took me a delightful seven hours. I felt as if I'd been miles and miles away from the chaos of Kathmandu.  In this Newari village, within the large village of Bhaktapur within the larger urban sprawl of Kathmandu, I was allowed to get a glimpse of daily life few tourists see.

I finally wandered into Durbar Square--the historic epicenter of Bhaktapur.  By now it was late afternoon and the magnificent temples and pagodas were deluged with tourists.  This is, after all, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  Those temples and pagodas...they were nice, beautiful, stunning.  But I was overwhelmed as well as hungry and dehydrated.  I'd been more than satisfied to see the inner Bhaktapur.

I stopped at a coffee shop, ordered an Oreo milkshake and ate a whole bag of cookies.  My feet hurt and I was tired.  I sat there for over an hour, writing, people watching.  I marveled at what a wonderful day it had been.

But it was time to get back to town.  I caught a bus to Kathmandu, then a rickshaw to my  hotel.  It was my last night in the city and I had things to do.

But none of those things could equal my day among the Newari watching, at least for a moment, their daily lives.

As an Asian acquaintance once said when he held snow for the first time..."It was rare and wonderful."

A Day of Wonder: Pashupatinath Temple in Kathmandu

Kathmandu, Nepal
November 14, 2012
Altitude: 4,445'

It was my first full day in Kathmandu and I was sitting of the wide-tiered steps facing the 6th century temple of Pashupatinath--the most revered Hindu temple in Nepal and a powerhouse of Hundu spiritual power.  Across the fetid and polluted Bagmati River I was watching two families prepare their loved ones for open-air cremation.  As filthy as the River was, this river is extremely sacred and it is to Nepal what the Ganges is to India and it is considered a spiritual powerhouse for Nepali Hindus and, to a lesser extent, Buddhists. For devotees of Shiva, this is the place that most choose to be cremated.  Cremations run non-stop--through the day and night and at any given time one can watching five or six simultaneously, all at different stages. The ghats--the stone platforms for burning--are separated by a walk bridge.  The ghats directly in front of the temple are reserved for the royal family, but preparation for anyone can take place there, but the body would then be moved to one of the nine ghats on the other side.

Both of these people had just died.  Cremation occurs directly after death.  There would be no calling hours, no funeral in the Western sense of a funeral.  All rituals take place during the preparation prior to the cremation.

First to arrive was a Hindu family,and it is with this family that I will focus this writing.  The body arrived wrapped in a blanket. I was sitting with two women and their guide, and they were more than willing to allow me to ask their guide questions.  We were all fascinated and would watch the entire process.  The guide assumed the man had died at home.  This is an option,but there is also a hospice attached to the temple,and people are often brought there in the final stages so they can die close to the temple and close to the river.

Over a period  of about an hour, friends and family arrived.  One by one, these people placed a saffron colored piece of fabric over the body. Many did this.  The body was then lifted and placed, feet first, on a sloping stone.  The feet were submerged int he Bagmati River and people often scooped up water and poured it on the face of the deceased, washed its feet or sprinkled it on the saffron fabric. The guide told us that the deceased person's sins were being cleansed by Gaga--the Hindu goddess of water.  All of this was done to purify the body as well as the soul.  Prior to this, a jug of milk had been poured on the slab.  This was very confusing to us, but the guide explained that the milk had been blessed in the temple and represented the god Shiva.

At one point water--possibly brought from the Ganges in India, was poured into the mouth of deceased.

On top of the multiple layers of saffron fabric, people began to put long garlands of marigolds, wrapping them around the head which was always exposed.  Many, many garlands were placed on the body.  All the time, people mingled. Others place flower petals on the fabric and on top of the garlands. Some sat by the body which was still laying on the sloping slab, feet submerged in the water.  All the while men circled the body with incense and, at times, they appeared to be praying.

After about an hour, the body was placed on a wooden bier and lifted by a group of about eight men and carried away from the temple to the ghats where cremation would occur.  Friends and family followed.  By now, numbers had swelled to about 50 or or more people.  The guide told us that the work place is very flexible when a death occurs. Because all of this occurred just after the death, in some cases people had to be notified and leave work rather suddenly.

This was our cue to shift sides.

Each ghat had a cremation in process.  Some had just begun and others were in the final stages where there was but a small pile of ash.  The guide told us that the entire process could take four to five hours.

The pyre had been prepared in advance.  Two long pieces of wood were placed lengthwise on the ghat.  Eight smaller pieces of wood were placed horizontally with two more longer pieces on top of them.  Below the pyre were thick bundles of straw.

The men carrying the bier circled the pyre three times. before placing the body on top of the pyre.  Now, one by one, the garlands of marigolds and the the multiples layers of saffron fabric were removed.  All were thrown into the river.  At that point, one of the women present threw bangles on the white-shrouded body.  The guide told this was his wife, signifying the end of the marriage.

Large bottles of ghee--clarified butter--were opened and slabs of the thick fat were lathered on the body with a knife. This was not only an offering to the gods, but a type of fuel as well.

A straw torch in flames was brought from the temple to start the actual cremation.  This task fell to the eldest son, and if there was no son, a nephew or oldest male relative.  By now, the body was covered in straw and no evidence could be seen of a body, thus providing dignity for the one being cremated.

Within a short time the first spread to all corners of the pyre.  It was then that the majority left, including all of the women.  The remainder of the job fell to the men in the family. Only some would stay until the very end.

I asked the guide if public cremation was the norm and he explained that electric crematoriums were available, but from a religious point of view they are rarely used.  The soul needed to be properly released, and It can only be done so in public.

I lingered a bit longer.  The women I was with left.  I did walk closer to watch the final stages of another cremation.  Once the fire had burned down, and only ashes remained, all was swept into the river.  Then the ghat was cleaned and made ready for another cremation.  All of this was done in a cool, businesslike fashion, although I'm sure there was far more emotion involved than we could see.

By late afternoon storm clouds had been building on Kathmandu and I left the burning ghats when a light misty rain began to fall.  Pasupatinath is more than a crematory.  I climbed the many steps above the river, past complexes of temples decorated with skeletons and erotic figures, past sadhus--holy men--quite willing to pose for a photo for the right price.  Monkeys darted back and forth and up and down the steps.

At the top of the temple complex I found a seat under the canopy of one of the 50 Shiva shrines at the edge of a forest.  I waited out this very rare mid-November rainfall. Perhaps the rain would clean out the dirty air.

It certainly wasn't unpleasant, what with the monkeys scampering about and children asking me for rupees, sweets or pens.


But it was getting dark, and whether real or imagined the smell of burning wood, and possible burning flesh, lingered in my nostrils.  It had certainly permeated my clothing.

After the rain let up I made my way down to the streets, caught a cab and returned to Thamel.

I threw my clothes in a plastic bag, showered, handed my dirty laundry to reception and set out for dinner.

But the images of both cremations, all the rituals involved and the power of watching multiple cremations along the sacred Bagmati River had left their mark.

It had been a rare and unusual day and I felt privileged to be part of it.

Stupa-fied in Kathmandu

Kathmandu, Nepal
November 14, 2012
Altitude: 4,504'

Whatever serenity I achieved in Bhutan ended abruptly once back in Kathmandu.  I was back in the belching, exhaust filled air of this filthy city.  With each step in the crowded tourist section of the city, Thamal, I felt as if I was taking my life into my hands. traffic was horrific, drivers followed now rule.  I was a jangled mass of nerves three hours after touching down.

Earlier, I written to my Aunt Gloria that I'd have more time to write once I got back to Kathmandu.  

"Oh, Dan," she wrote back.  "Kathmandu!  It sounds like something our of a Humphrey Bogart film."

Well...I suppose it's easy to see it that way.  It certainly does have its share of amazing sites, if one takes the time to get out of the tourist ghetto.

I spent three days there and that was enough.  One day was spent at the most important Hindu temple in the country--Pashupatinath. Another was spent in Patan, a medieval city-state that is now part of the city.  O spent a delightful day navigating tiny alleyways, getting lost, wishing I had popcorn to drop so I could find my way out.  A third day was spent at Bhaktapur.  All three of these are UNESCO World Heritage sites and all are astounding.

But it was best fortune to be in in the city during the three day festival of Thiar--the festival of lights which celebrate good over evil--the second most important holiday in Nepal.  In India it's known as Dewali--the celebration of light.  The goddess Laxmi would be honored..."worshiped" was the word most often used.  She is the Hindu goddess of material and spiritual wealth. She is believed to protect her devotees from all kinds of misery--both physical and financial.

I'd first seen glimpses of it that morning when I saw intricately designed mandalas in front of shops.  But it was while I was navigating the pack streets of Patan that I saw how the average Nepal prepared for the day.  In front of doorways was a large drawn square made of mud.  I say mud, but it was a thin layer that simply made the pavement brown.  On top of that the mandala was drawn--an intricate geometric shapes filled with different colors,flowers and flower petals.  And by each door there were a series of small tiny clay pots--palas--that would be filled with oil then lit that that evening.  Every nook and cranny of homes would be lit up with colorful decorative lights in the belief that the goddess would only visit homes properly illuminated.  

 

Above each door was a garland of marigolds--bright orange and hung like Christmas garland.  Even dogs had a marigold wreath wrapped around their heads.  It was all really quite magical.

And it was this was at every home.  Families were busy preparing the mandala, mothers went to street stalls to buy specially baked sweets for the holiday, and some children were expecting "gifts'" from the goddess.  It's been likened to Christmas, but only in a remote sort of way.

That evening, when I got back to Thamal, it was dark.  In front of each shop--and there are thousands, were the tiny palas lit with candles.  Strings of lights--much like we have for Christmas--but inthe country's national colors--were lit up everywhere. It almost felt like Christmas Eve.  

Kids were out in abundance and most of them were chanting..."Deusere.  Deusere.  Deusere."  Pronounced doo-ser-ay, it means money.  "Money. Money. Money" they chanted at the doorsteps of shops. And each shop keeper would give them a few coins.  I imagine this went on in neighborhoods as well.

Older kids huddled in groups dancing--beautifully choreographed Indian dances set to music they'd brought with them.  They seemed to be entertaining themselves. Both the groups of boy and the groups of girls were really quite accomplished.  For those of who watched, they did come round at the end with a basket.  It wasn't hard to throw a few dollars in.

Thihar went on for a few more days, but by the end of my stay in Kathmandu the lights had come down, the candles put away, the mandalas washed from the front of homes and the garlands tossed.  Thanks god, I thought.  Unlike Christmas which goes on and on and on, Thiar lasted but less than a week. 

Despite the chaos Kathmandu can subject a traveler to, it's still a fascinating place--if one leaves the tourist district.  How many places in the world have five UNESCO World Heritage sites in an hour's radius?

But...I had to get out of the city.  It was just a bit to intense, and there was a lot left to do.  I always know when it's time to move on, and three days in the capital was sufficient.  Maybe I'll come again, but not for awhile. 

Photos of Amazing Bhutan

November 2, 2012

Three stupas greeting new arrivals from the airport

                                                                    Paro, the capital

A temple at a 10,000 foot pass

                                                                An ancient fortress

                                                             Farming still in November

                                     A lovely day hike to a temple overlooking a deep valley

J                                                   Just one of many gorgeous valleys

                                               Clean, clear rivers ran off the Himalayas

                                                    The lovely town of Punhaka at dawn

                                                       Yeshay, my driver, and his family

                                                    Monks turned praayer wheels all day

                                                              The iconic Tiger's Nest

Monks and Novices were everywhere

Bhutan: In the End

Kathmandu, Nepal
November 11, 2012
Altitude: 4,445'

In the end, how do I compress into mere words the almost mystical, almost sacred experience I had in the Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan. Even those words...Himalayan Kingdom...evoke a sense of mystery.

In the end, how does one express the power of seeing the highest Himalayan peaks and epic vistas while driving over 10,000' mountain passes or of seeing forests carpeted in rhododendrons.

Mt.Everest on the flight from Kathmandu to Paro

In the end, how does one tell of winding country lanes, driving through long passages of willows at full peak autumn color, all set against the lustrous blue, brilliant high altitude sky.  Or of clean and clear vallyes--one aftr another--all tucked away between igh Himalayan peaks with rivers--wild and clean--running through them.

In the end, how can I tell you of the magical power of prayer flags blowing in the wind, of prayer wheels at the base of mountain streams, of chortens and stupas dotting the landscape and of temples hundreds and hundreds of years old.

In the end, it is still difficult to express the joy of sharing a road with herds of cows, or seeing groups of yaks and black-necked cranes.

In the end, I will always remember the color--of bright red, yellow, green and blue flags, of fields of red barley, yellow mustard and roofs layered with red, red chillies and of long, white strings of yak cheese drying in the warm autumn sun.

In the end I will remember always the legions of red-robed monks walking to temples, whose temples are full of gold Buddhas and silver Buddhas and red and black prayer wheels.

 

In the end, we travelled from the urban west to the less inhabited center of the country, travelling a total of 1,830 miles, over bumpy roads that, at times, scared me to no end. Up and down serpentine roads that zigzagged up and down high, high mountain passes.

In the end there is no doubt that it was an expensive trip.  Bhutan does not want what has happened in Thailand and Nepal where legions of backpackers have altered the very culture of the country.  Tourism is government controlled and I paid $290.00 for the privilege of visiting it.  But..to be fair..for that money I had superb hotels, fabulous meals three times a day and a car and driver at my disposal 24 hours a day.

In the end I could never keep track of the complexity of Bhutanese Buddhism, what with its Buddha, and Second Buddha, its five Dhyana Buddhas, its Past, Present and Future Buddhas let alone the eight manifestations of the Buddhas, the Bodhisattvas, its monks, and gurus and magicians and consorts and flying tigers and subdued demons and cannibal demonesses or the multiple protector deities that oversaw each valley and home. It was totally baffling, but totally enchanting.

In the end I think all my sins are cleansed. "If you walk around this temple 108 times," Yesehy would tell me once, "All your sins will be cleansed." Another time he suggested I wear a 100 pound coat of mail and walk around the temple three times.  That was just too much work and I couldn't imagine my knees after that.  Everything seemed like too much work until one day we came to a lovely 17th century covered bridge.  "If you walk across this bridge all you sins will be cleansed," he told.  Finally!  Something I was willing to do.  So I did just that, and I walked back, so I guess all my sins are cleansed twice.

In the end it was hard to leave Bhutan.  I'd developed a real fondness for the people and the diversity of the landscape.  There was a surprise around every corner.

In the end it was hard to leave the cocoon of five star hotels, daily buffets and a car and driver.  Poor me.  I'd have to duke it out alone from now on.

In the end Bhutan was rare and unusual, clean and unpolluted, full of warm and open people. It was destination very far away and seemingly like some lost Shangrila.

In the end, Bhutan ranks very high on the list of world marvels.

In the end, though, I'm not sure I'd return.  It was wonderful, but very expensive and, as Robert Frost wrote, "I have miles to go before I sleep."  There are heaps of other places left to see and only so much time to do it.  But I did make a promise to my dear friend, Glenda.  And I am a man of word, so perhaps we'll go there together in the next few years.

Bhutan! In the end, it was amazing!